


Escape

by Eowyn315



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Depression, F/M, Season/Series 06
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-03
Updated: 2011-08-03
Packaged: 2017-10-22 04:38:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/233830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eowyn315/pseuds/Eowyn315
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Buffy POV of the end of "Tabula Rasa."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Escape

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Slaymesoftly for betaing.

Everything hurts.

She’d been so light, so free, for a few hours. She hadn’t known what it meant then, how great her reprieve was, unburdened by memories of heaven or hell. She didn’t know who she was, but she was happy, carefree.

Then it had all come crashing back, slamming into her like a freight train. Death, resurrection, pain, loss. It had stunned her to the point of paralysis, and if Spike hadn’t been there, the vampires they’d been fighting probably would have killed her.

Now, sitting alone at the bar, she wonders if maybe it wouldn’t have been better that way.

It feels like starting over, like she just crawled out of her grave all over again, caked with dirt and despair. She just wants to lay her head down and cry, but she can’t, not here, not in a public place. But she came here because she couldn’t cry at home, because Willow and Tara were imploding, and she can’t bring herself to be a good best friend right now. She can’t deal with a weepy Willow, not on top of everything else – everything Willow _caused_ , so maybe she deserves to be hurt, to lose what’s most important to her. Buffy already has, and it wasn’t what _she_ deserved.

Spike is here; she sees him out of the corner of her eye. Turns to face him, meets his eyes. He’s so hopeful, silently pleading, and she can’t deal with _that_ right now, either. She knows what he wants from her, and she knows what she wants from him, and they’re not the same. He told her as much when he sang to her. She can’t give him what he wants, so she turns her head, refuses to look at him anymore. She doesn’t have the energy for conversation, but he gets the message, retreats.

Now she’s alone again, and it hurts, and she can’t stop thinking about it.

She gets up off her stool, follows him through the crowd. “Spike,” she says. He turns. “Wait.”

He looks at her expectantly. Waiting for her to say something. She doesn’t; she can’t speak, doesn’t have words for all the pain she feels. She pulls his head down to hers and lets him taste it instead, lets him taste the anguish on her lips, the depression that coats her mouth. She clings to him like a lifeline and lets herself fall, down, down, down, until everything fades away but him.

She feels the pressure of his hand at the base of her skull, his tongue insistent against hers, his body solid and firm beneath her hands. The only thing she can feel besides pain and sorrow and death.

Her cheeks are damp when she pulls away. He licks his lips, tasting the salt of her tears. His brows knit, his eyes searching hers with concern. She shakes her head, pushes him away, bolts for the door.

He follows, calling her name, but she doesn’t stop, doesn’t turn around.

Because she knows that in the end, this will hurt, too.


End file.
